


Field-Stripped and Oil-Rubbed

by trilliath



Series: Avengers Quarantine Procedures [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: ALL OF IT, Aw feelings no, Barton hates medical, Clint does too whoops, Closed doors are like a suggestion really if they aren't locked, Coulson takes off his armor, Coulson's actually human, Erotic Massage, M/M, Massage, Medical pretty much hates Barton back tho so…, Okay even if they are, PWP, Pre-Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Yes including closing his eyes, Yes including the tie, mostly - Freeform, to be specific
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 10:52:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5124815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trilliath/pseuds/trilliath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Clint's phone notifies him that his Avenger Status has suddenly been changed to "INACTIVE" in bright red with the code "MD" on it, he is beyond pissed because he's <i>fine</i> what the fuck? Not like, "It's just a flesh wound" fine or "They're bruised not broken" fine, but like, actually completely <i>fine</i> fine. So what the fuck?</p><p>When medical gets the message, someone spills their coffee and quite possibly cries, someone else decides that today is a great day to go home sick and everyone else resignedly draws tongue-depressors to decide who's going to be the one to hand over the full report to Barton detailing the medical disqualification. </p><p>When Coulson gets the message, he takes a deep breath to settle his nerves, smiles, and waits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There are three parts to this little series which feature three different relationships that result from one Quarantine-shaped catalyst. They can be read separately or together as desired.  
> 1: Clint/Tony (sexual, superfriends with benefits)  
> 2: Clint/Coulson (sexual and beginnings of a romantic relationship)  
> 3: Tony/Steve (sexual and beginnings of a romantic relationship)

The door to Coulson's office opens with a satisfying bang as Clint shoves (okay maybe kicks) it open and marches into the room, paper crumpled in his hand. He shakes it in the air between them as he blurts, "What the fuck is this, Sir?"

The room hangs awkwardly silent for a long moment. Phil casts a wry smile over at the agent staring at the both of them with wide eyes.

"Let's pick this up at," he checks his watch, glances at Clint's face with ever-so-slightly narrowed eyes, then says, "Fourteen hundred hours. Tomorrow."

The agent grabs up her folder, looking vaguely disgruntled as she ducks out of the room but wisely remaining silent and closing the door after her. Clint doesn't care. He tosses the paper down between them on Phil's desk and then crosses his arms expectantly.

"What," he repeats, glaring at the page.

"I take it you're objecting to the content, not having a sudden case of aphasia?" Phil asks mildly, blinking ever so innocent lashes at him. His brow is furrowing in that funny little way of his that suggests bemused confusion to the untrained eye. In reality it's a sign of Coulson's mischievous delight and mockery.

The fucker thinks he's funny.

"You. Put me. On medical disqualification."

Coulson tsks, leaning back in his chair just a little, a tiny smile touching the corner of his mouth. "No. Your failure to comply with treatment did that."

Clint opens his mouth to argue, but Coulson's eyes sharpen on him and he says, "Simple facts, Barton. You've not been taking proper care of yourself. Did you read it? It's a simple enough matter to resolve."

And he just sits there, all… reasonable like. Because Coulson knows Clint had more or less stopped listening to medical oh… roughly an eternity ago. Except there's that hint of something smug like he knows Clint didn't, and he's going to make him. 

Aw, reading, no.

"Not all of it. I stopped at the big red 'deactivated'," he admits.

Coulson turns those smooth eyes on Clint and says, "You really should read it."

Clint stares at him, knowing it's a losing battle but unwilling to capitulate too easily. Coulson merely gazes back, serene in his superior tactical position. When the corner of his mouth twitches in amusement, Clint grimaces, then snaps up the paper and quickly reads the rest of it. 

And reads it again to prove he had read what he'd thought -

"Massage," he yelps, absolutely incredulous, his voice getting louder. "You benched me over a _massage_? I could be out there saving lives, but you think I _need a massage_ "

"You're being very melodramatic," Coulson says, head tilting slightly as he deadpans, "Almost as though you need to relax."

Clint gapes at him, indignant and preparing to retort, but his attention is diverted abruptly. Coulson's eyes haven't stayed on him. They dip to the piece of rumpled paper before they focus somewhere near Clint's shoulder, and then Phil's hand flits over to smooth the edge of his tie unnecessarily. His nostrils flare as he sucks in a breath, his countenance smoothing so quickly someone with duller eyes would never have noticed the pause. But for Clint, who's made the study of Phil Coulson's intricacies an art form, it's like a neon fucking sign.

So he goes still and listens very carefully to the words that come next.

"We can resolve it right now, if you want."

Clint stares at him a moment, trying to parse, but it doesn't give. He knows it has to mean more than Coulson's signature on an override, but...

"Yes," he says instead, because he'll always say yes to him.

Coulson looks up at him, the briefest flicker of surprise at his easy acceptance. A moment of vulnerability and nervous hope slipping through before he stands.

Phil is unbuttoning his jacket, neat, efficient little motions that part the fabric and slip it off his shoulders to reveal the pale span of fine just-barely-apricot shirting. He folds it over the back of the chair, pausing as he turns back and smiling that tiny self-effacing smile that Clint knows is both an act and a reality. 

He stares at the smooth fabric draped over the chair. Coulson doesn't take off his jacket at work for much. Like, not less than severe bleeding of a teammate or medium-to-large bombs or trapped in enemy territory without more than a toothpick for weapons 'much'. Jesus fucking christ Clint can't handle this. Not like this. Not if he hopes, even for a-

He's taking off his fucking tie. One small shimmy, a slip-snick, then the sibilant glide of silk as it comes free from under the collar in one long slide. 

He can't help staring as Coulson gently rolls the tie up in a neat coil. Clint hates that he swallows, that he betrays himself enough with that little motion. 

Phil's looking at him when he rakes his eyes back from those elegant wrists. His eyes are soft and full of a depth that makes Clint's chest ache. He's studying Clint's face, reading him like it doesn't matter that he's written in a dead language because Phil speaks it anyway. He reads him, and whatever he sees there, impossibly, is somehow enough. There's a click, and a glimmer of pewter as the plain cufflinks go next, and then he's rolling up his sleeves, one, two, three folds on each so they're settled at his elbows.

Oh.

He snaps his eyes up to Phil's as understanding lands in his mind like a ton of bricks.

Phil studies him back, and whatever he sees must prove sufficient because he swivels his hips a little and steps out from behind his desk.

"With me?" he says quietly, tipping his head an inch towards the inner door, the entrance to a space he has always presumed was Phil's quarters, or perhaps his private armory. Either way it's something he's never been privy to. The vents are too small in there and the door lock could be hacked but not without it being obvious and… well, even Clint knows there are places you don't go uninvited. Especially when fantasizing is half the fun.

"Always," he replies without hesitation.

Phil swallows that impassively but ducks his head as he turns to the security panel, hiding his face from Clint. He reads the tension in his neck and the slight curl of his shoulders just as easily as any twitch of lips, though, so he knows the word has had an effect. 

Then the door opens and Clint can't stifle the snicker that rumbles in him. "Of-fucking-course it's both."

Coulson's glance is questioning but Clint just grins his smarmiest and doesn't explain why the wall locker of firearms on their left and the clothes closet on their right amuses him. Besides, he's way too busy looking at the narrow bed in front of them.

Phil smiles that vague, benevolent smile that touches his eyes and Clint thinks means something like fondness. He waits until they're both inside the small room, then closes the door behind Clint, the lock engaging with a click and then a beep and then another, louder click. Clint wrinkles his nose at the control panel, but satisfied, turns his eyes back to Coulson. He finds the man looking right back at him. Suddenly there's a lot less air in the room. Clint holds steady and watches, waits for Coulson to aim him at the next task. Adrenaline surges low and manageable, anticipation curling hot in his belly.

"If you would please disrobe and lie down, Agent Barton?" Phil directs politely as he gestures towards the bed. His eyes dip, just a little to skim down Clint's chest. Just enough to tell him there's more than professional investment going on in Phil's head. Unless he's imagining the subtext which is an entirely possible result of too much wishful thinking and god fucking damnit this is… yeah. Just like fantasies he's had, aw fuck.

His fucking fingers tremble a little as he reaches for the hem of his tank top, horror of horrors, and he drags it off sharply in annoyance. He wads the fabric up in his palms, frowning at what to do with it next in this pristine room, but then Phil reaches out and plucks the fabric right out of his hands. A flick of wrist and he's gently folding it in the small space between them and damned if Clint doesn't shiver at the brush of fingertips.

It's going to be obvious, if it isn't already, how he feels about those hands. And if this _isn't_ what he thinks he's reading into it, shit's about to go pear-shaped real fucking fast. The bottom of his stomach drops out like it does when he flings himself off a building. He should go, now, before it's too late, before he fucks everything up. He should, he knows he should but _fuck_ should. It's a stupid word and also, when has he ever done that? Anyway, jumping off buildings has worked out unexpectedly well for him so far in his life.

Instead of bolting he bends to unhook the laces looped at the neck of his boots, wiggling them loose enough that he can step out of them. Even if he'd been one to take the wiser course, like, ever in his life, Phil's the one who wants him here. Wants him here and it's something more than just a gimmick over Clint's latest failures to adhere to any medical regs. Particulars of subtexts aside, even someone without a name like Hawkeye would notice that much. There's a tension in the air, a presence not unlike Phil's normal gravitas but somehow deeper, more intense. It's not just on his end either, not just in his head. He's got too many years of experience in tense situations to be imagining this one. 

He nudges his socks down to slip them off with his boots and as he straightens Coulson bends to pick them up, moving them to join his shirt in orderly respite on the shallow counter below the upper weapon's rack. Like they belong there, like Clint's a weapon to be field stripped and oiled. To be taken apart and cleaned and put back together, kept ready for Coulson's use. 

Which, hot, but also... 

Is that what he is to Phil? An asset, a precious bundle of utility to be kept and maintained? Or something more? And maybe this is his way of showing it? He's not sure whether to be insulted or insanely turned on. And yeah, okay, that's a lie. He's already half hard at the idea, given the knowledge that every action Coulson takes is precise, deliberate. That he'd said 'disrobe' and… 

And he's going to ruin everything, because that's just his _life_ , but he's not going to balk. He unbuckles his belt and then his tac-pants and drags them all down his thighs, baring the last of his body in one smooth stroke. And if he puts a little effort into stepping out of them gracefully, into flexing a little to best display his body as he moves, well. Call it habit.

He hands the pile of clothing to Phil, who takes it gently, the smallest of smiles forming under brows that ease ever so slightly up towards each other, something small and secret behind his eyes as he turns the last time, gaze intent on the cloth cradled in his hands.

Weirdly, it's almost more intimate than if Phil had ogled his naked body. 

Clint's never been a coward but he will take an opportunity to retreat when he can. While Phil is facing away, he lies down quickly on the narrow bed, settling face down to hide the swelling already starting in his cock.

The sheets and wool blanket on the bed are tucked down with crisp military corners, worn smooth with age and use. There's a faint hint of old soldier to the wool; sweat and rain and gunpowder. It's achingly familiar and thrillingly novel at the same time. His skin prickles with the sensation as he settles and tries not to feel just how bare his naked ass is to the world. It's a futile endeavor. He can feel the moment Coulson's attention returns fully to him, though he can't see anything but the small pillow nestled in front of him against the bland grey wall.

"Warm enough?" Phil asks after a moment's pause. Like he's offering to cover Clint up for warmth rather than leave him buck-ass naked. Given that there's basically no way the tiny edge of coolness in the climate-controlled room could actually penetrate the flush of anticipation he's experiencing enough to even remotely come close to the day-to-day discomforts in the life of an avenger, it probably means something more. Like he's checking for a sign that Clint isn't psychologically chilled by the proceedings.

Clint isn't. He's not at all sure what the fuck is going on or what it means other than that he's going to have some serious new spank-bank material and quite possibly exponentially more sexual frustration around his handler. But he's never, ever been misled by Coulson before so he's not about to start doubting him now.

"I'm golden, sir," he says, breathing out a steady breath and refusing to tense up.

Phil makes a soft hum, then turns and busies himself with something briefly before returning to Clint's side. Clint should be able to settle. He knows exactly where Phil is standing, what he has in his hands without having to look, and he trusts the man to unfathomable depths. Even still, he flinches when a gentle touch lands on his bare shoulder.

The touch disappears immediately, and Clint mourns its loss with a soft sound of protest.

"Relax, Hawkeye, I'm going to take care of you," Phil says softly.

"Yes sir," Clint replies automatically while remaining tense out of reflex, despite the order. But after a moment, he takes another breath and then deliberately sighs it back out, releasing what tension he can manage. He feels his shoulders ease just a bit.

"Good," Coulson murmurs, voice low and warm and just a hair too thick to be easy. Clint forces himself to take another deep breath.

He hears the telltale sound of a lotion pump and then the brisk brush of skin on lotion on skin that suggests he's warming it with his hands. The scent is mild, just a hint of eucalyptus and something woodsy and not strong enough to cover over the scent of Phil's subtle cologne and sweat on the blanket. He finds himself sucking in deep breaths. 

Clint closes his eyes and tries not to tense up when Phil finally reaches for him, but he still flinches again when Phil's hand touches his back.

He's just too damned _aware_ of him, too tangled in anticipation.

"Shh, I've got you," Phil murmurs, and Clint, embarrassed, makes himself relax under the gentle, trusted touch. It's really not hard to do, to trust in Phil in anything, let alone something as benevolent as a massage.

Even if it's tangled up in something... Extra.

Phil, of course, knows what he's doing. That much is apparent almost immediately as his fingers begin to unerringly map out the lines and curves of Clint's muscles, noting knots and unevenness of scar tissue with little swirls of thumb, palpating Clint's limbs and joints to test functionality. It's entirely professional, clinical even, right up until he pauses, then slings a leg up over Clint's thighs and straddles his ass.

And that is definitely not a gun in his pocket. 

Before Clint can decide to have anything resembling a coherent thought about that, Coulson sets two strong hands either side of Clint's spine and _pushes_. Warm, slick pressure rides slow and hard up his back, spreading deep through his chest as his body bends to Coulson's will. All thoughts scatter like smoke, burned away by the heated touch. He groans, just a little, because willfully relaxing his body apparently also includes a loosening of his tongue.

Phil's responding hum is pleased, and Clint can't muster any embarrassment when it happens again on the next, deeper push. Because Coulson's never half-assed anything in his life, he leans into it, using his weight and his strength to really dig in and force Clint's muscles into submission. And it actually works. As obedient as Clint may be for this particular man (okay, yes, relatively speaking, here) his muscles take a little more convincing. He's almost actually surprised when he feels some of the perpetual coil in his back begin to loosen up. Of course, it's Coulson, so he's not actually surprised at all.

It's just, okay, yeah. Maybe it's easier to get into it now that he's been physically convinced a little. Story of his life, right?

He sucks in a deep breath in time with the return stroke of Phil's hands and his skin tingles in the wake of the warmed lotion. It feels so good that he's not even really thinking about the way Coulson's dick is pressed against his ass, or the way it's gone thick and plump with each pass of hands.

Phil's hands take one more smooth pass over his shoulders and down under his arms to glide down his ribs before rounding up his hips to settle in the small of his back. Then he shifts back and climbs off Clint's body and Clint feels torn between disappointment that he's stopped and anticipation for whatever is next.

"You carry a lot of tension in your chest," Phil offers. "I'll need to work from the front a while before I can really get you loose back here."

Clint's filthy brain gleefully supplies him with subtext, not that he isn't already hard as a rock. Which he is. Fuck.

"On your back please, Barton," comes the order, low and smooth enough to make him tingle in the happy horny place low in his belly.

That, and the anticipation of rolling over and showing Coulson his very aroused underbelly is enough to make his skin prickle. He pushes himself up on his hands, letting his muscles flex as he twists and switches his feet over and levers the rest of his body to follow suit.

Laying on his back, his erection is unmistakable. It goes unacknowledged for the moment, though not unnoticed. Phil's face is unreadable as his eyes drift over Clint's body, even to Clint's eyes, but he knows what he doesn't see - disinterest is definitely not what's happening here. Coulson tips his chin down for the merest moment, allowing himself a whisper of a private smile before nodding with a clinical detachment as Clint settles all the way back and waits, erection jutting up like a very proud little elephant in the room. Clint sets his jaw and silently dares Coulson to say anything even remotely resembling 'these things happen, nothing to be embarrassed about'.

Coulson doesn't miss the look, but it earns Clint an unimpressed eyebrow as the man approaches the bed again. Which, okay, fair. Phil tends to save the awkward-social-fumbles for marks and other people he wants to underestimate him and Steve. 

To Clint's surprise, despite supposedly having him turn over to get access to his chest, Phil starts at his feet, pumping fresh lotion into his palms and kneeling at the foot of the bed as he warms it between his hands. Clint can't help the reflexive tremor when Phil cups a hand under his heel and slides a slick thumb along the arch. Suddenly his dick isn't the only part of his body reaching with pleasure. He doesn't even try to stop the groan that wells up in him when Coulson slides slick fingers between his toes and carefully stretches them.

Okay, so, small freakout. Clint's pretty sure nobody's ever touched his naked feet before. Definitely not anything like this. Is it supposed to feel this good?

"Relax," Coulson's chides when Clint lifts his head to look down his body at the studious attendance at his feet. He's glad Coulson's attention remains on the foot because the sight of him there all tangled with his toes makes his dick twitch.

Sighing out a deep breath, he tips his head back and stares at the ceiling and wills himself not to suddenly discover a foot fetish and come all over his belly like a teenager. It's a shit-ton harder than he'd ever have anticipated. But he wants to see this thing through more, to have whatever this is that Coulson's offering him. 

To his relief, Coulson doesn't linger long there, just enough to warm up the joints before moving up to knead all firm and methodical up each calf, fingers lingering a little over scars and old breaks he knows almost as intimately as Clint himself, having been there for many of them and read up on the rest. It's an almost meditative meander through shared space. By the time Phil's massaging the thick muscles in his thighs, he's almost relaxed again into the touch, the history of trust pushing him past the raw anticipation and into a heady silence, despite the unflagging thrum of arousal at his core. He can let his guard down here, in Phil's inner sanctum, and finally relax.

His eyes are half lidded and heavy when Coulson finishes his quads and stands away from the bed again to return to his side. "Good," Coulson says, approval light in his voice. "I think you're relaxed enough for me to work on your chest now."

And then without pause Coulson starts to move towards his groin as though to mount Clint's body again or lean across him or something. Before he consciously knows why he does it, Clint's hand snapping out stops him with a fast grip on his wrist.

"Wait. Don't."

Coulson goes immediately still, eyes darting to Clint's face in concern, trusting his warning implicitly. A tiny flicker of disappointment starts to spread and then gets washed over with professional detached concern the longer the pause stretches while Clint struggles to articulate the problem.

"It's just. The oil," Clint says, voice ever so slightly rough. 

Or, you know, other bodily fluids. God, he's so _fucked_.

"The oil?" Coulson prompts, gaze steady as his brows draw together.

"Your clothes," he says. Clint drags his thumb along the inside of Coulson's bare wrist because he _can_. Or if he can't, if this isn't headed where he hopes it is, he's not sure how much more _not knowing_ he can take before he loses any pretense of casual and comes apart in a very unmistakable and unrecoverable way when Phil touches him. Either way, he's not interested in fucking up Coulson's sartorial choices. "They'll get ruined."

Or he will. Whatever. He's not really asking about the clothes, is he? Shit.

But Phil's shoulders lose the line of tension they'd drawn flat with and a tiny smile touches the corner of his lips. 

"I'll take them off, then," he says, voice half lifting in question.

"Yeah, uh, good idea," Clint says, voice a little thin from craning his head up from the bed and, yeah, also from the idea of more unprecedentedly bare Coulson skin next to his raging hard-on that's like three inches from Coulson's wrist.

Coulson arches an eyebrow at him and after a moment he realizes he's still holding onto his wrist. He lets go, already missing the warmth of his skin. His reward, however, is the sight of Phil Coulson bending over next to him in order to untie his shoes and slip the dark leather from his feet with his usual efficient grace. Thin trouser socks disappear after them, and then Coulson's standing over him again, gazing steadily at his own deft hands at work, calm radiating from him in a way that Clint knows from long acquaintance is a conscious choice rather than an inherent state. 

It's something of a relief, really, knowing that the tension's not all his own as he watches Coulson free his leather belt in a soft rattle as the buckle falls open, then the fly. His trousers fall in a smooth ripple as he bends down and steps out of them, then has them up and folded in a neat shape in a matter of moments and set aside with the shoes. 

The shirt comes off next in slow increments as each button is undone and then the sleeves unrolled again to be laid flat when he slips the pale fabric from his shoulders and folds it up to stack on the pants. He savors the nigh-unprecedented span of compact shoulder muscle, the curve of collarbones and chest hair peeking out from the neck of the undershirt. The demure and somewhat faded Army Special Forces tattoo peeking out the bottom of the sleeve on his shoulder, its crossed arrows sending a chill through his body that leaves his cock twitching even though he tries to tell that stupid hindbrain part of him that they're not for _him_. They're not his mark on Coulson's skin.

He swallows when he shifts his gaze back to Coulson's face and finds his eyes darkened with appreciation where they've noted the physical response Clint is having to this, the mildest of stripteases ever invented. Clint half expects it to stop there, the pale blue boxer shorts to be worn in sacrifice to the dignity Coulson carries about him like Tony wears his armor. It doesn't. The tiniest of smiles touches Coulson's mouth as he looks down at himself and tugs up the hem of his undershirt, drawing it over his head in an easy motion.

Clint sucks in a breath that's a little louder than he'd intended but he's been caught out by the pink slashes of still-young scars. He'd expected them, or well he'd forgotten in the moment but it's not like he didn't know they'd be there. But not like - just not-

Aw, feelings, no.

"Close your eyes and relax, Barton," comes the order, a firm thread to it that has him obeying automatically even though he doesn't want to look away. Still, it keeps him from panicking. Much. Unsurprisingly, being laid out all exposed and horny and halfway to total relaxation with his cautious walls tumbled down somewhere outside the secret room he's been let into, it's a lot harder to keep his shit together.

There's the faintest sounds of movement and he tracks Coulson's approach easily despite remaining blind to the room, so he's not surprised at what happens next, exactly. Within moments he has a lap full of handler, naked and warm as he is, settling into his body with the ease of long familiarity. He's not hard like Clint is, but he's aroused, cock heavy where it settles against his balls. It's amazing and grounding and wonderfully reassuring. At the same time, it is seriously damaging his calm.

He tries another deep breath and it doesn't go as easily as before. He has to suck in a second shallow breath and force himself to keep his hands flat beside him. Clint wants desperately to touch him, to open his eyes again and see the scars that prove he's really here, really alive. He doesn't disobey, but relaxing's harder than ever, and not just because of the proximity to his dick.

"Hang on. I've got you," Coulson says quietly, as though reading his mind. There's more lotion, then warm hands are settling on his ribs, bracing and steady. They fan out, sliding in under his pectorals and then up the center line to press in over his heart a moment. The touch makes his heart beat harder, like it's trying to stretch up to touch the hands, but steadier at the same time. His breath comes easier when it presses up into Coulson's hands.

One hand remains flat over his heart while the other continues on its trajectory upwards and over to Clint's shoulder and then down his arm. The pressure is firm and warm and it chases tension away with its passage.

Coulson guides Clint's hand up to his chest, sets his fingertips to the soft hair broken by the scars over his heart. Clint presses his hand there, taking the permission he's been granted to savor the intimate and forbidden contact. He can feel it beating underneath the imperfect but magnificently whole flesh and it finally softens the ache back. Smooths it down into something more like the old shadow of pain it really is. 

It's just, until now... 

Phil lets him stay like that, hand pressed to his heart even as Phil resumes the massage. Those elegant, gun-calloused palms curl around his forearm and start a steady pressure up the limb, as though spreading the comfort of their connection up through Clint's body.

They don't talk - it's not like Clint has the fucking words sufficient to the task anyway. Not on any front. Coulson just smooths it all back down, straightens out the kinks and knots in his arms and his shoulders and then moves on to his chest. The pressure aches, the thinner flesh over lean muscle giving little padding against the strength pressing him down, grounding him into his frame. But it stretches him, expands him into it as Phil works him over, prying him away from the protective ball he's hunched into so many times.

The further the tension recedes from his upper body, the more consciously aware of his dick he becomes as it is the one place he really can't relax, not pressed warm and close against the crease of Coulson's thigh like it is, rocking gently with every pass of Coulson's hands on his body. By the time Coulson gets to his other arm, he wants almost nothing more than to rock up against him deliberately. He can feel the tackiness of precome smearing against Coulson's skin and suddenly it's all he can feel. His hand flexes against Coulson's chest, a tremor of competing impulses.

"Relax," Coulson says again at the sudden tension, taking Clint's hands and pulling them down together at his side.

Clint huffs a mirthless laugh in response, shaking his head. If he stops holding back, he's going to start grinding his hips at the very least.

"Yes you can," Phil replies, voice lower and softer as he leans into Clint's body, hips shifting together so that Clint's dick rubs against his skin. "Just let it go. Let me take care of you."

His stupid treacherous cock thinks that means it, and it twitches against Coulson's thigh. But Coulson's hands are dragging down his chest in a less-than-therapeutic way and Clint can't keep his hands at his sides and also stop from rocking up against him so he ends up doing neither. His hands curl around Phil's hips and he grinds them together in a lazy drag that forces a rough sound from his throat. 

Instead of chastising him, Coulson just leans into it and wraps a hand around his cock, lotion-warmed hand smooth and slick and firm enough to drag an actual whimper from him. Clint's hands fall away, forgotten as the strokes pick up a steady pace, warm and gentle and perfect. The breath Coulson sighs out is something almost reverent as he says, "That's it, let it go." 

As his orders and needs align, Clint groans, any thoughts of holding back fading under the slick sound of skin on skin. His body goes slack and useless with the weight of Coulson's presence pressing relaxation into him and dragging the tension back out of him with deft fingers. It's all focused down to a point, and it's not going to take much more to let that get released too.  
Not much at all.

"That's good work, Barton," Coulson murmurs as Clint sighs out a slow breath and goes boneless. His body trembles under Coulson's, but it's a quiet thing, like always, leaving him in a helpless fall, like river rapids that spin him around and carry him along in a liquid rush.

Coulson gentles him through it, and he forgets himself enough to open his eyes after, just enough to see Coulson naked and straddling him, looking down at him with darkened eyes and a hint of pride in his pleased smirk, his skin glowing with the faintest sheen of sweat and Clint's fucking _come_ splashed over his chest, all warm and alive and it's perfect, so perfect that he can't help the humming noise he makes at the sight. Or the way his eyes drift closed as he savors this perfect moment.

Coulson lets him have it, sitting calm and quiet as he soaks it up, even though Clint can feel how hard Phil is now. But the glow doesn't last forever, and the faint chill of the air starts to creep in. Coulson climbs off his lap and he blinks his eyes open to frown in protest, but the man doesn't go far. He settles a hand on one of Clint's feet, crosses it over the other and says, "Over front."

Clint's too loose to be much help, which explains why Coulson's using the torsional strength of his legs to help roll him like any soldier trained in Army first-aid would. With a few more nudges between them, they get him settled back on his belly again, softening cock tucked carefully down between his thighs with gentle hands. 

And then nothing. For a moment Clint considers dropping off to sleep right there, but it's a little chilly and also he really, really had hopes for this being a reciprocation-involved sort of thing. He gathers himself enough to twist his head around and frown his question up at Coulson, who’s standing there all naked and hard and hesitant as he stares down at Clint's body.

"Thought you were going to work on my back," he says, voice low and soft around the edges from satiation. He tilts his head and adds, "Said something about wanting me good and loose."

Coulson's face does something funny at that. Good funny. Like all, lusty and pink-cheeked and predatory at once. Huh. So maybe the filthy entendres had been not quite intentional. 

"Or we could stop here," Coulson offers, voice deceptively light.

"Why?" Clint asks, squinting at him. And maybe it's the seriously satisfying orgasm clouding his vision, but he can't see a single damn reason why that would be a good plan. He says so. "Pretty sure that's a terrible plan, sir."

Coulson purses his lips. "I'm not sure the alternative plans are much better at this point."

Clint grunts his dissatisfaction with that statement.

Coulson sighs and crosses his arms over his chest, high and tight. "I underestimated certain… factors in my original plan."

"Which was?" Clint asks, pushing up on his elbows and drawing in more focus on the conversation he's pretty sure is about to be of vital importance.

"A massage," Phil replies, voice dry. But his mouth softens a little as he looks away. "Be someone you trust to see to your needs. And if that… worked for you, step two was to top you off. Let you _savor_ ," he rattles off with studied casualness, like any mission prep.

Clint feels the words pull at something in his head, but it doesn't make sense until Phil adds, "The plan was to show you Stark isn't the most compatible choice available and provide an alternative solution."

Aw, quarantine.

"So you _did_ watch it," Clint says, abruptly grinning. "Aw, shit, I owe Stark fifty bucks now."

Coulson casts a wary, withering look his way, which just makes him grin wider because it means Phil's ruffled enough to show it. But orgasm-sated as he is - and holy shit, yes, that is his come still gleaming where it clings to the deliciously masculine hair on Coulson's chest - he's not done with this and he'll be damned if Coulson's done either.

"I know I'm not the brightest lightbulb in the Avengers, both hilariously-literally and figuratively-speaking, but I still fail to see how any of that gets you to stopping any time soon. At all. Also, I'm getting cold and you should definitely come keep me warm," he says, turning away again and stretching flat on the bed, sinking his face into the pillow with a pleased hum. He's not sleepy anymore, it's still early yet and now that the haze of orgasm has cleared he feels too… too _aligned_ and energized by relaxation and security to do anything but savor.

As hoped, Coulson comes back over, steps up to the bed and slides down with a knee beside Clint's hip and straddles his ass again. Then he makes like a blanket and settles his weight over him, stretches out till his chest is covering Clint's back, warm skin and slick smears of come making him shiver with the contact. His hands glide up Clint's arms to settle up under the pillow with him. His face settles in against the side of Clint's neck, nose pressing in behind his ear as he takes a deep breath. And then he fucking _nuzzles_ Clint.

Clint lets out a shuddering breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding.

"The problem, Barton," Phil says, voice low and silky against his skin. "The problem is that I want more."

"Still fairly certain that is in no way a problem," he counters, body more pliant under the protective presence of Phil surrounding him than anywhere else. It doesn't matter what _more_ entails because he's already going to say yes. Very, very yes. This is already so much more than he'd even dared to hope, someday, _maybe_. "In fact, this is the opposite of a problem. This is, like, bonus objective territory here."

A short laugh huffs against the back of his ear, but Coulson still hesitates.

"Phil," he says twisting his hands over so he can at least get his thumbs gliding over the sides of Coulson's hands. "Do. Not. Stop."

After a moment he feels the nod and relaxes again as he lets Phil have his hands back. This time when Phil lotions up and starts working on his back, it aches in the best way. His muscles just give up in the face of Coulson's charge, letting go of tensions and knots so layered it feels strange not to have them cinching his bones together. It's arousing in a way that spreads low and liquid through him, not like he can get hard again, but it's so fucking pleasurable it feels like he almost could. Especially when Coulson gets to his ass and lingers over it.

Even though Clint can feel the heat of Phil's erection against his thigh, it's done with characteristic thoroughness and care, till his hips feel oddly open and settled and his legs feel like they stretch on for miles. Only then does Phil slide slick fingers up the crease of his backside to trace the furl of his hole. He doesn't tense or shudder, just soaks up the bright sensations. It's not surprising the first press of fingers breaches him easily. Between the excess lotion and the post-orgasm total-body relaxation he's feeling right now, Clint couldn't have resisted if he'd wanted to. 

"God, look at you," Phil murmurs, thumbs pressing into Clint and then massaging the band of muscle in tiny little circles, spreading him slowly wider. "Opening right up for me."

Clint wants to say something equally filthy and encouraging in response, but nothing comes, words flitting away from him like jumpy little sparrows he'll never catch, so he just hums something affirmative and does his best to remain as loose as possible. Phil's not going to rush this, and for this… for _him_ , Clint can be patient.

He loses time in the slow massage, aware of little but the stretch and slick oil between him and Coulson's fingers. His internal clock takes a non-drug-induced nap for the first time in approximately a decade and it would be terrifying if it weren't happening _because_ he feels so safe. 

He is safe. When Coulson's hands slip away and are replaced by the blunt press of his cock, he knows with absolute certainty that it won't hurt even a little as Coulson leans in. It doesn't. There's nothing but the slick, gliding pressure that fills him up. Smooth, deep, without even the slightest resistance, Coulson's pressed inside him and it's. So. Fucking. Good. 

Phil's motions are steady and smooth, an inexorable pressure that builds on itself rather than the sort of reckless force so many employ. Nothing wrong with that, it's just… it's been so long. Maybe forever since he's had this sensual sort of fuck. He can feel the shape of the cock inside him from every angle, every detail against sensitive skin. He can feel the hair on Coulson's legs where it brushes against his thighs on each pass. He gets to notice the way Phil's balls drag against his own spent cock between the crease of his ass and thigh. He savors the warmth of the breath against the back of his neck. The press of trim belly against the small of his back. All of it, every bit swirling together and shaping up into something complex and beautiful and nothing like the singular focused pleasure others favor.

It's so good, so exactly what he craves he almost wants to cry tears of fucking joy.

Thankfully, before he reaches that stupidly humiliating point, Phil starts to lose his rhythm a little, hips flexing in uneven pushes that grind into him enough to rip a moan from his slack lips. Then hands are gripping hard at his waist and Phil's pushing right into him like he can transcend the physical boundaries of their bodies as his cock throbs hard inside Clint. He feels the rush of Phil's orgasm inside him, hot and wet and so fucking welcome. As it eases, he sighs his pleasure as Phil slowly melts against his back, drifting down to curl over him in a loose-limbed sprawl once again.

Phil's heavy, but it just makes him feel safe and held close as they lay there. He spreads his fingers when Phil's hand covers his and they tangle them together, curling in tight to savor the warmth. He closes his eyes and basks.

"Clint," Phil says softly against the shell of his ear, voice startlingly vulnerable. 

He makes a sound of question in reply, shifting his head slightly when he feels Phil open his mouth, then stop and swallow. Clint doesn't have to hear him speak to know the questions and the doubts are being carefully laid out and assessed in the agent's orderly mind, risks calculated even though everything has already gone to plan. It's what he does. Also why they're both alive. Still…

"If you ask me for a sitrep right now I'm going to smother you with your own pillow," Clint grouses, squeezing his hand to soften the threat, feeling stupidly vulnerable himself at the moment.

It gets a laugh, like he knew it would, and he sighs, more than ready to drop off entirely into the most relaxed sleep ever. Except he knows Coulson's not done.

"I'm sure you'll try," is the droll reply, but Phil's thumb traces the ridge of Clint's knuckle beneath it. "Nevertheless…"

Clint nods drowsily, giving him the go-ahead to ask what he needs to ask, even though it's patently obvious to him that it's redundant beyond belief at this point. He's really not surprised. 

"Still with me?" Phil asks tentatively, harkening back to the moment he'd asked Clint in. The hint of self-deprecating humor in his voice warms Clint to the core. He knows it's a foregone conclusion. Knows intellectually and intuitively and emotionally what Clint's answer is. He asks anyway, because it's the right thing to do.

"Damnit, Phil," Clint laughs softly, pulling Phil's knuckles over in reach of his lips. He brushes them together, keeps them close because he can. "There some _other_ definition of the word 'always' I don't know about?" 

Lips brush smooth and warm against his neck. "None that I'm aware of," is the light, soft reply.

Clint smiles into the pillow and feels Phil relax against him, and it's good. It's all good. He is squared away like nobody's business.

Medical can still suck it, though.


	2. Coda 2

The light in the shared living area is the best this time of evening, giving a good view down the widest lane of the road below, spearing through the skyscrapers that straddle it and catch the rays of the setting sun in bright amber. Steve's pressed against the glass walls on the sheer face, legs crossed under him on the floor, sketching idly. Sticking to the actual familiar sights in front of him is relaxing. Lets him clear his mind, keeps his imagination in check for a while.

He's broken from his reverie by the chirp and buzz of the phone balanced on his thigh and he spares it a glance. An Avengers Team Leader notification flashes bright on the screen, a status update for Barton, switching his profile from the surprising red "INACTIVE" to a green "ACTIVE" on the roster.

Steve pauses, then sets his pencil down to tap at the screen and try and get more information. The deactivation had appeared that morning and he'd texted Clint about it, receiving a terse **_fkin nonsense im FINE and fixing it DO NOT BENCH ME_** in reply. Apparently he'd been successful, one way or another. The notes are lacking entirely on the switch.

He scowls at the useless message, but really, as long as Clint's okay, he's good. He'll get the full report later, even if he has to go to Coulson to get it. There's not much light left, so he sets the phone aside and decides to deal with it tomorrow. He picks up his pencil and focuses his attention on the horizon again, but before he gets in more than two strokes, he hears the musical rise and fall of Tony arguing with JARVIS start coming down the hallway at the same time as the elevator doors chime and start to open.

Steve doesn't intend to eavesdrop, exactly, when he sees Clint flag Tony down in the foyer. But the motion catches his attention and curiosity keeps it when Clint steps close into Tony's space when Tony nears. He can't help but notice when Clint drops his hands on Tony's shoulders like they belong there and Tony's hands settle easily at Clint's waist, an embrace that's just a little too intimate for-

Well, hell, it's not as though they aren't intimately familiar with each other's bodies.

Steve clutches the edge of his sketchpad as he swallows back the flicker of jealousy at the way Tony's face brightens at the sight of his friend and settles into something interested and maybe a little flirty. 

"Hey, just the man I was looking for," Clint says, smirking.

Steve considers retreating, but that would draw their attention his way, and he's definitely not interested in repeating the awkward apologies and stifled humor at his expense that had followed the Quarantine Incident. Besides. It's not like Steve positioned himself here for the way his enhanced hearing easily picks up the way the sound of Clint's voice bounces so easily off the full-height windows he's sitting beside. Hearing them is incidental.

"It happens," Tony replies, amused.

"So, funny thing," Clint continues, "And I know this is kindof a dick move-"

"Do you make any other kind?" Tony interjects, earning himself a punch to the shoulder that doesn't actually do much to dislodge their comfortable hold on each other. 

"Apparently not," Clint says, a wry look on his lips. "Because it turns out I might have been a little premature in my offer."

Offer? He'd heard the exchange in quarantine, but it's been weeks, plenty of time for other… Steve looks to Tony's face to try and understand but doesn't get any clues. Tony looks a little surprised and disappointed, but it settles into bittersweet resignation quickly enough.

"Damn," Tony says with a sigh, stepping back from the embrace enough to drop his hands to his own hips as he plasters a smirk on his face and adds, "I knew it was too good to be true. What changed?"

Clint lets his hands fall away, looking like he too regrets but expects the distance. He tilts his head down over a tiny, private smile. "Not a free agent anymore. Got taken off the market."

Tony's smirk turns a little softer and he reaches out again to chuck his knuckles against Clint's shoulder. "Well, shit. Good for you, Katniss. Baby bird's spreading his wings and gonna leave the nest. All that shakin' your tailfeather in skintight leather finally paid off, huh?"

Clint snorts. "Nah. My wardrobe choices continue to go underappreciated. Our sex-tape, on the other hand…"

"Really?" Tony says skeptically as his brows arch and he thinks about it. Then his eyes narrow and he says, "Oh _really_. Do tell."

Clint laughs, "Oh hell no, I might be stupid but I'm not _suicidal_. But I definitely owe you a fuckin' beer or six for that report."

Steve isn't quite following, since from what he understands, unanticipated sharing of sex-tapes isn't exactly a good thing, but they both seem amused and Barton looks remarkably relaxed so he's sure he'll find out about the details later.

Tony laughs and waves a magnanimous hand, "Oh that was entertainment enough on its own merit. No thanks needed. But I'm glad to be awesome at everything as always, including unanticipated side-effects."

Clint rolls his eyes and says, "At least this time it was good collateral."

"Oh please, you love the 'whistlers', just admit it. Tactical disadvantages far outweighed by the look of terror in badguy eyes as they fly in."

"Keep telling yourself that," he tosses back, smirking. There's a small pause as the conversation comes to a natural end when Tony doesn't pick up the threads again to keep the banter going like they normally would. It's not awkward or anything, but it's a step of distance that nobody misses noticing. 

"So anyway, I've got to run," Clint says, thumbing over his shoulder easily. "I just wanted to catch you and say sorry, and thanks."

"Sure, sure," Tony says without his usual barb. "Anytime" he adds, slapping a press-worthy smile over his face and giving Clint a wink before turning away and pulling out his phone in a typical Tony Stark dismissal.

Barton is too used to them to be put off, so he waves and turns to head out to wherever he's off to. Of course, Steve really shouldn't be too surprised when Clint turns his head and looks right at Steve over the sofa that's mostly hiding him from the entryway. They don't call him Hawkeye for nothing. Steve swallows hard against the sudden rush of embarrassment at being caught staring and Barton shoots him a wink but leaves it at that and walks off as the elevator arrives.

It leaves Tony thinking himself alone again. The phone in his hand is clearly just a prop and it disappears again after the elevator doors close. Suddenly he looks very small standing there in the grand foyer.

Steve hadn't _meant_ to eavesdrop, or to spy, but he can't help but notice the way Tony's shoulders drop and the way he looks after the closed elevator doors and mutters, "Damn," to himself one more time in a private moment of real disappointment.

He makes himself turn his eyes back to his sketchpad and stop playing the voyeur _again_ , damnit. Doesn't watch while Tony collects himself and heads off towards the kitchen. Draws instead of getting up and following him to see if he's alright the way he wants to, since there's no way to make it casual and not prick Tony's suspicions. His heart's not in it, though, the loose initial lines of the exterior view twisting into arc-reactors and work-roughened hands. There's no point in pretending otherwise. It's what always happens, eventually, has done for months now. And lately… 

Well, let's just say his sketchbook has started looking an awful lot like a Tijuana Bible, mapping out everything else that Barton and Stark had laid out for him just out of his reach. Sort-of out of reach, at least. He's… alright, there's not really any doubt in his mind that the offer to join them had been genuine. It's not the sort of thing Tony would do without being willing to back it up. Except Steve, well, doing that in quarantine wouldn't have been… it just isn't for him. But the rest? God almighty he'd _wanted_. Still wants. Rough hands in dark hair. The sound of Barton's palm cracking against Tony's skin, the way he'd moaned with it, the way he'd- 

So yeah, it's gotten under his skin.

And then today, how disappointed Tony'd been when Clint broke it off.

Steve sighs and shakes his head against the crisp memories, forcing his fingers to relax against the pencil starting to flex in his grip. But unlike days previous, there's a little kernel of something that looks a lot like hope starting to form up in stubborn protest in the back of his mind. Because the offer had been genuine, he's sure of it. And now that Barton's quit the field… 

It's an opening. A small one, maybe, but he's gambled a hell of a lot on less. A brisk tap of the pencil, a decision, and then the now-muddled sketch of the city gets abandoned for a new page and the beginnings of a plan.


End file.
